


At Seventeen

by Radclyffe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock used to be close...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At Four

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic based on the song ‘At Seventeen’ by Janis Ian – this isn’t it  
> Also I thought I had better post this before Series 3 Episode 1 is aired. It assumes that a) John is married and b) Mycroft didn’t know Sherlock faked his death, I’m sure that neither of these things will be compliant once ‘all is revealed’.  
> The fic borrows names from ACD canon but that is all.  
> Not sure that it is very readable or believable but there you go.

“You ungrateful little boy, eat up your supper, there’s plenty of starving children in Africa who would be glad of it”

“Then put it in an envelope and send it to them!”

This rejoinder earned Sherlock a clip around the ear from Nanny and he wailed, tears running down his face.

“Why can’t you be a good boy and eat it all up like Master Mycroft? You’ll sit here until you’ve cleared that plate or it will be a night in the coal house for you, I’ll not see good food go to waste. Now eat that up while I go and fetch Master Mycroft his pudding”

And with that she stomped angrily out of the room

“Quick, Sherlock, pass it to me” Mycroft leant across the table and swiftly swapped his empty bowl for Sherlock’s full one and hurriedly started to spoon the congealed macaroni cheese into his mouth. It tasted revolting, never a good cook at the best of times, nanny’s nursery suppers were even viler cold. Trying not to gag, his qualms were quashed by the sight of his four year old brother, lip still quivering, slate grey eyes brimming with tears gazing up at him with complete and utter adoration.

_I will do anything, anything to protect you and keep you safe_ thought Mycroft, _anything at all._


	2. At Seventeen

I learned the truth at seventeen

That love was meant for beauty queens

 

It probably wouldn’t have worked, not if Milverton’s older brother hadn’t been at school with Sherlock’s, hadn’t followed that same brother through university and the civil service exams into the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. 

The plot was hatched during the long vacation, Milverton senior, grounded having spent too much time and money in the Soho clubs had been forced to rest his wallet, if not his liver with Ma and Pa at their villa in Spain. His younger brother’s continued gripes regarding the swotty, spotty little freak who had contrived to humiliate him throughout the proceeding year had cut through the mental torpor induced by too much sun, alcohol, foreign food and familial conversation sufficiently to spark his interest. Succinct questioning of the younger Milverton allowed him to conclude that the Holmes who was his brother’s contemporary might indeed be some relation to the Holmes that had been the bane of his life both at school and the varsity.  From the depths of his memory he brought up the fact that this Holmes had had a little tyke around the same age difference as between himself and Milverton minor. In the cause of relieving his boredom and possibly gratifying his parents with a display of fraternal goodwill he decided to take an interest in his brother for once and pursue the subject further.

“So what’s he like then? This boy who’s got your gander up?”

“Total wet, treats all the other boys like idiots. Only interested in stinks and showing off in front of the masters, writes all his notes in code so you can’t crib them. Fearful snitch seems to know by looking at you what you’ve been up to. He could keep his blessed opinions to himself, like any decent sort, but no, has to share them with the whole school. Squealed on Howell last term for stealing Wilcox’s tuck, said his black tongue gave it away, and sneaked on me for foaming the school fountain. Said he knew by the smell I was the only boy using that brand of anti-dandruff shampoo”

“And were you?”

“yes, and that’s not all…” the younger Milverton paused at this point uncertain how much humiliation he could share with his brother “said he could tell by my right sleeve I’d got jizz mags hidden under my mattress, got hauled in front of the Head for that one. And all along he’s a dreadful faggot, shared a dorm with him last year, had a thing about some little bitch called Michael, frotted against the mattress and whispered his name in his sleep, the dirty little fag, Mike Croft that’s the boy’s name, he’s not somebody at school must be from home or somewhere. Can’t imagine him having friends though”

Milverton senior burst out laughing _So Bunter’s baby brother bumps and grinds the night away at the thought of doing the nasty with him how delicious_. Bunter had been Milverton’s nickname for Mycroft at school but bulk had been the only similarity between the ‘fat owl of the remove’ and the boy gifted with an intellect as sharp as a knife, Head Boy and straight A student with an Open Exhibition, a double first and the highest ever score in the civil service examination. Milverton had disliked him at school resented him at university and now as he watched Mycroft steadily climb the ladder of preferment  while Milverton stagnated on the bottom rung his antipathy had blossomed into full blown hatred. _His dirty little catamite of a brother has got the hots for him, well sounds like they wouldn’t spoil another couple. Some capital could be made of this surely._

“Fancy a spot of revenge little brother; put this freak well and truly in his place?”

His brother’s eyes lit up “absolutely, anything, are you planning something?”

“Just get as friendly as you can with him when you go back, watch him, stay close and let me know anything useful. Leave the rest to me”

********

For the remainder of the holidays Milverton senior applied himself to his plan with an animation that would have left his superiors at the Foreign Office astounded. On his return to London he visited the post office in Trafalgar Square and secured the services of a P.O. Box number, then one mild afternoon in late September, having first ascertained the gentleman would be a liberty, Milverton walked the length of Horse Guards Parade from his office in the basement of the Old Admiralty to Mycroft’s much more palatial setting in the Foreign Office Main Building in King Charles Street.

Mycroft hadn’t been unpopular at school but he had always kept to his own set. He’d never had much to do with Milverton,C. A., but had failed to be impressed with him in the little contact they had had over the years. Therefore Mycroft was suspicious when Milverton called by his office to ‘chew the cud’ as he so ineloquently put it. He wanted to say outright ‘what are you after?’ but he left it and was surprised and even a little gratified when no requests for help or favours came. Mycroft even lowered his guard sufficiently to go into the outer office and ask his secretary to fetch them tea and a plate of scones. Once these arrived, the two men talked amicably about their Alma Mater, the woes of family holidays, the forthcoming Ashes series in Australia and the South African general election for a further 20 minutes before Milverton made his excuses. 

“So what was all that about Sir?” Monica, his secretary had entered the room and was efficiently clearing the tea things. “Frankly I have no idea” Mycroft scanned the room until his eyes came to rest upon his desk “Except the thieving bugger has walked off with my fountain pen”.

Milverton was not a clever man, his scholastic career had been eased by his wealthy parents, but he was relatively good at drawing; he had left university with a third class degree in the history of art, an undeniable skill in forgery and an eye to the main chance. With the fountain pen and its distinctive turquoise ink and the help of a handful of torn scraps of paper he’d purloined from Mycroft’s waste paper bin while he had been out of the office ordering tea, Milverton applied himself to the task of mastering the man’s handwriting. 

His background, if not his abilities remarkably similar to those of Mycroft it took little effort to replicate the epistolatory style of a public school and Oxbridge educated, 24 year old upper middle class male. The standard issue foreign office notepaper was the same in their respective departments and Milverton relied on the fact that it was unlikely that Sherlock had received many handwritten letters from his brother; he also took consolation from the fact that boys in the upper school did not have their post routinely intercepted by the masters. Thus the first letter was composed.

********

 _A letter from Mycroft? Had he forgotten something important, Mummy’s birthday – no he was pretty certain that was in May. Had someone died? No, Mummy would have written, unless it was Mummy?_ A small flicker of hope was beaten down within him as being lacking in proper filial affection. _An exeat then, that was more like it, strange so soon after the start of term but maybe Mycroft was going to be in the area and would take him out for the afternoon. Unusual (unprecedented) but that had to be it,_ the thought filled Sherlock with a warm glow, but nothing prepared him for the contents of the letter.

My darling Sherlock,

Forgive me but I can no longer remain silent, you haunt me.

I think about you. Constantly.

Just say the word, one word and I will know the answer, Say nothing and I will never speak of this matter again.

I love you, my own, my darling, darling boy.

Be mine.

Mycroft.

He read it through again, the ink blurring, words dancing before his eyes; every syllable causing his blush to deepen, his ears burned, the heat travelled the length of his body, settling in the one place he didn’t want it to go. 

He cast a covert glance around the common room, was anyone watching him? The boys were engaged in various activities, Robertson and Elmore were playing chess by the fireplace, encouraged (distracted?) by a couple of onlookers, Wilcox was building an Airfix model, Mbambo was helping with the transfers, Connor and Priestley were making tea, but most were engrossed in their post. Milverton and Howell were over in the far corner sniggering at something in Milverton’s own letter. Did they look his way, or did he imagine it? Milverton had been almost friendly towards him this term, this had disconcerted him, he’d never really interacted with his peers at school and wasn’t sure what the protocol was. Looking around again to check that no-one could see him he dropped the letter and his pencil on the floor so that they fell under the table, surreptitiously sliding the former inside his shirt as he made a display of retrieving the latter.

He raised his hand, attracting the attention of the supervising master; Dowson taught chemistry and Sherlock was a particular favourite of his. 

“Sir, please may I be excused, I feel a bit odd”

Dowson looked at the boy, he was flushed and sweat beaded his hair line, his eyes were wide and dark. “Do you need me to call your Dame?” 

“No, I don’t think so Sir, just the room’s a bit hot” 

“Very well, go and lie down, I will send Wilcox to check on you in an hour”

Sherlock gathered up the rest of his things and fled the room. Did he hear laughter coming from Milverton and Howell’s corner? He didn’t dare stop to look back. 

Once Sherlock reached his room he flung himself face down on his bed and brought out the letter from its hiding place.  He read it through again breaking down the letter into its component parts. 

My. Darling. Sherlock. Three words

I. Think. About. You. Constantly. Five words

I. Love. You. Three words

Be. Mine. Two words. 

Mycroft. One word.

Mycroft! The one redeeming factor in his desperately unhappy childhood.

Mycroft! The knight in shining armour who had rescued Sherlock from the twin dragons of nanny’s wrath and mummy’s indifference. 

Mycroft! Who had dried his tears and calmed his fears, who acted as Sherlock’s interpreter to this foreign and hostile world.

Mycroft! Who made the unremitting ordeal of life at home bearable. 

Mycroft who had patiently explained the changing timbre of Sherlock’s voice, the sudden appearance of a few dark hairs on his chest and other places, Mycroft who had comforted Sherlock when his bed was wet, as he had years before but for a different reason, Mycroft who had explained to him the difference between boys and girls and why Sherlock’s body did what it did some mornings.  (Sherlock hadn’t been sure he liked what he had heard about sex but Mycroft’s rational and mostly scientific elucidation had reassured him. He learned what he thought and felt was within the parameters of what was normal and he so longed to be normal). 

He knew however, even by the age of thirteen that he liked boys in a way that he didn’t like girls. In that long vacation his exasperated mother had sent Sherlock on a science summer school for two weeks. Sherlock had loved it and despite his inherent desire to be alone had managed to engage with an equally bright but less socially inept boy from Norfolk called Victor. Victor was tall like Sherlock but stockier, pale skinned with a shock of red hair. Victor and Sherlock had been paired off; working on a joint project and producing a first rate piece of work. They had spent their evenings together too, Sherlock deducing the other students at the school and some of the tutors as well. Victor had been fascinated encouraging Sherlock to go further, and Sherlock had basked in his attention. The last night they had climbed out of the library window and sat out on the lawn, gazing at the night sky. Victor had pointed out the stars and the galaxies but Sherlock hadn’t paid much attention. Shyly Victor had draped his free arm around Sherlock’s narrow shoulders and Sherlock had liked it. 

The summer school had ended and Victor and Sherlock had parted with promises to write. They had maintained their correspondence for some months, barely legible letters with articles from scientific journals and information from school textbooks winged their way between Norfolk and Berkshire, occasionally Sherlock sat at his desk and felt the ghostly weight of an arm on his shoulders and wondered what it would have been like to kiss Victor or be kissed by him.  Sometimes at night, after lights out, when he was sure the other boys in his dorm were asleep he would think of Victor and feel the blood surge through his body.  It was natural, nothing to be afraid of, Mycroft had told him so, all normal boys experienced this, it was part of growing up and if he was thinking about a boy, well Mycroft had said that didn’t matter so much either but that particular piece of information was best kept to himself. 

Christmas came, then Easter, Sherlock celebrated his fourteenth birthday, Mycroft was due to graduate and enter the civil service, things were changing Sherlock reflected sadly, Mycroft’s holidays would no longer match his own. This particular vacation Sherlock had taken to staying up all night and sleeping half the morning mainly to annoy Mummy (but he was a teenager, so it was kind of normal too). He sprawled in the bed, luxuriating in the friction of the cotton sheets against his skin, subconsciously swaying his hips against the weight of the blankets until he realised he was hard.  He spat onto his right hand and caught hold of his penis, it felt good. He closed his eyes and willed himself to remember Victor, his first crush, now a somewhat shadowy figure as the months had passed. He pictured the milky skin with its smattering of freckles (were there freckles?), the auburn hair (no that was wrong surely it had been more ginger?) The body his mind was caressing was soft and plump, not stocky. A man’s frame, not a boy’s.  Sherlock was confused, his desire was building, he pumped his cock with ferocious urgency, the need for release was overtaking his thoughts, he tried desperately to cling to the image of Victor his mind was creating, but it was fragmenting, he couldn’t hold it. Then he came, and it was Mycroft’s mouth he plundered, and Mycroft’s name on his lips. 

Victor, the science school and the night sky had been erased and replaced by Mycroft. 

After the initial shock, Sherlock was surprisingly pragmatic in regard to this new development. He knew what he felt would be considered wrong in the eyes of the world, but in the privacy of his mind all actions were permissible providing no-one was hurt. There could be no harm in these thoughts, however inappropriate, Sherlock loved Mycroft, had adored him since infancy, the fact that this love had changed from philia to eros was nobody’s concern but his own. It was both his private burden and his private joy, tucked away deep within himself. For three years Sherlock nursed these desires to himself, desires that could never be acknowledged, acted upon. Sherlock supposed that at some point they would fade, he would outgrow them, after all there was never any suggestion they would be reciprocated…except now it seemed they were.

He reread the letter, folded it and put it away, tucking it beneath his vest so it rested next to his heart before taking it out and reading it again, he scrabbled around in his locker for an A4 pad and started to reply.  He wrote and wrote pages of spidery handwriting blotted with ink and tears, words of love and yearning, of hopes unfulfilled, of dreams come true. He wrote of how he had felt for years, always felt it seemed, that he belonged to Mycroft, in whatever way Mycroft wanted him. He read through his words and despaired, nothing could satisfactorily capture the depth of his love; he tore the paper into minute pieces before burning the fragments in the study grate and mashing the ashes with the poker. It would not do to leave any trace that much he knew. Wilcox looked in as instructed and left him tea, Sherlock hardly acknowledged him. He started again, inadequate words, unable to do justice to his passion, more tearing, more fire, more ashes. Finally six full pages of outpoured longing and loneliness was reduced to just five words

I feel the same.

Sherlock

The next morning he bunked of chapel with a sore throat and walked the half a mile to a postbox. He didn’t question why Mycroft had chosen to given a post office box address, Mycroft shared a flat with two other junior civil servants and a PhD student from Kings, Sherlock was naturally secretive and he could imagine his brother being so too. Sick with anticipation, restless and unable to concentrate he waited impatiently for the following Saturday’s recreation time hoping yet dreading the reply. Mycroft did not fail him.

My darling

Your letter taught me to hope, I am overcome with longing. I can tolerate this no longer I must see you; touch you; claim you.

Friday. 9.00pm. The old Gatehouse.

Be ready for me.

Mycroft.

Sherlock knew the old gatehouse well; some years earlier, even before Mycroft was a pupil, the schools grounds had been reordered and a new entrance made closer to the main road with electronic gates and a booth for the team of concierge who no longer lived on site. A small three roomed cottage by the old main gates had been occupied by the retired gatekeeper until he died, since then property had remained empty and had become something of a dumping ground,  wintering tents, ground sheets and the nets for the tennis courts. There were even some abandoned pieces of furniture, a couple of paraffin heaters and some butane lamps. Few of the boys knew of the gatehouse, and while one or two would venture down the overgrown paths or round by the disused road to reach it, only Sherlock could pick the lock with ease. It was by far his favourite place to hide out when school became oppressive, or the bullying intolerable and he needed to retreat to what he had started to call his ‘mind palace’. Mycroft knew about it of course, that the old gatehouse was Sherlock’s special place, had almost encouraged his break-ins knowing that Sherlock needed space and time to compute all the data he was daily assaulted with, but despite this Sherlock couldn’t help but think that something was not quite right in Mycroft wanting to meet him there. Why did Mycroft want their assignation to happen on school turf? Mycroft was the adult here; surely he had better access to a place? He could book a hotel room, or arrange for Sherlock to come to London in the half. But these nagging thoughts were no match for the amazing conclusion that Mycroft wanted to see him, so urgently it couldn’t wait and when they met Mycroft would hold him, might even kiss him and maybe even more (though at this his imagination failed him). The only thing that mattered was Mycroft wanted him and that Sherlock was to be ready for him and if Mycroft wanted to come to school then who was Sherlock to question him.

I will be there.

Sherlock

********

Charles Milverton collected Sherlock’s second letter from the box he’d hired at Trafalgar Square Post Office in his lunch break on Wednesday with a feeling that could only be described as elation. The letter could guarantee as far as possible that Sherlock would be awaiting an assignation with his brotherin the gatehouse, now to get Mycroft there.  For a moment he mourned the passing of the telegram, but his younger brother had given him enough clues into the modus operandi of Holmes minor, and his particular way of communicating. Samples of Sherlock’s code had been forwarded to him with pages from a school exercise book, he knew how Sherlock would write his name and could work out the rest. The plot was hatched; a letter written and later that same evening Milverton drove out to Windsor to post it. This was fun, Milverton felt like hugging himself in his glee, so much better than work, and if it went according to plan it would pay a lot better as well. Oh the delicious and undoubtedly lucrative satisfaction of holding the reputation of the omnipotent Mycroft Holmes in the palm of his hands.

The letter arrived as Milverton hoped first post on Friday morning; placed respectfully on Mycroft’s desk by his secretary it remained there unopened until nearly lunchtime when its intended recipient returned from his morning meeting. Mycroft recognised the handwriting at once. Sherlock had written to him a handful of times in the past, thank you letters and the occasional birthday card if prompted by Mummy or the school but never anything to him addressed to his office, but this departure from habit only inspired a mild curiosity not alarm.

Mycroft Holmes Esq, Private and Confidential

Foreign Office Main Building

King Charles Street

London

He slit open the envelope and perused its contents and his curiosity developed into something more like concern; the letter comprised nothing but a list of elements from the periodic table. 

Beryllium Astatine Scandium Hydroxide Lithium Nitrogen Gallium Tellurium Holmium Uranium Selenium Nickel Neon Promethium Francium Iodine Dysprosium Sulphur Helium muicnerwaL tlaboC Potassium

Mycroft recognised it for what it was immediately, his little brother’s fondness for using codes was well known to him.  Unlike Sherlock, chemistry had held little fascination for Mycroft at school, but he had studied it to ‘O’ level and his eidetic memory allowed him perfect recall of the periodic table.

Beryllium Be

Astatine At

Scandium Sc

Hydroxide HOO

He methodically worked through the cypher until he came to muicnerwaL, which gave him a moment’s pause, there was no such element. But then he smiled to himself of course, the capital L at the end, Lawrencium backwards rL instead of Lr and the same for Cobalt, oC not Co, with Potassium to finish. Mycroft added the final K with a flourish and read:

Be At ScHOOLiN GaTeHoUSe NiNe Pm FrIDy SHerLoCK

The instruction was clear though why Sherlock had chosen to send him this cryptic message was mystery. Was Sherlock in trouble? Had something happened to him that he could not go through the proper channels. Mycroft was always anxious regarding his younger brother. Sherlock was a sensitive child, their father had died just before he was born, Mummy suffered with lingering depression and Nanny had been a tyrant who having expected a docile obedient second Mycroft hadn’t coped with the faery child that was Sherlock. Aside from his brother, he had grown up unloved and unlovable, friendless, prodigiously clever but completely lacking in emotional intelligence. Mycroft knew Sherlock was bullied and isolated at school but the seven year age gap meant he was never on hand to protect him.  Mycroft loved his little brother without question but was often exasperated when his attempts to steer Sherlock into more socially acceptable waters floundered, geographically too distant to prevent the resulting wreck. And lately there had been something else, something so unspeakable that Mycroft refused to name it even to himself that made maintaining a distance between them an imperative rather than a choice. 

Mycroft reached for the telephone to contact the school, but hesitated, Sherlock wanted to see him, had written the letter in the one way that ensured he would know the urgency and the need for secrecy. He had put his trust in his brother and Mycroft was not about to betray that trust by involving the school but still he felt uneasy. Big Ben struck the hour; he placed the letter and the translation in his pocket and went to his club. He worried away at the letter over two portions of fish pie and a second helping of jam roly-poly. Later in the quiet of the smoking room, he lit a cigarette and studied the letter again.Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Despite the paper, the handwriting, the familiar code the more he studied it, the more convinced he became that the letter was not Sherlock’s handiwork.

He left his club and walked slowly back to the Foreign Office, it was Friday afternoon, the nights were drawing in and Whitehall was emptying rapidly, the members back to their constituencies, the mandarins to their country retreats. He himself had a longstanding invitation to weekend in Kent. As he slowly perambulated along Horse Guards Road he repeated the words of Sherlock’s letter like a schoolboy cramming for an exam ‘Beryllium Astatine Scandium Hydroxide Lithium Nitrogen…’ and then it came to him, the chemical symbol for Hydroxide was OH-, school contained one H and two Os and therefore the list should have read Scandium Hydrogen Oxygen Oxygen Lithium or possibly Hydrogen Dioxide but not hydroxide. Why had the meticulous Sherlock who wrote Lawrencium and Cobalt backwards for accuracy made that error?

Mycroft slipped back into his office unnoticed and closed the outer door. He sat motionless for some time, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to the elbows the letter flat on the desk before him. Intermittently he placed his head in his hands and groaned softly as if to aid his thought processes. Someone, or more than one someone, was enticing him to a secret assignation at his old school and using his vulnerable younger brother as bait. He mentally ticked off the list of possible suspects, foreign agents, terrorist organisations, his own side.  He occupied a minor position in the British government, albeit not quite so minor as he liked to make out, and without question he had been earmarked for greatness since ‘A’ levels. But was this enough to bring him to the notice of the anti-government forces out there? The office was practically empty, could he bring this letter to the attention of his superiors, even allowing they were still in the building. He needed help but had no idea who to turn to. Whatever the plot behind the letter he could not ignore the unalterable fact that whoever ‘they’ were, they were using his brother for nefarious plans of their own. It was highly likely Sherlock was at risk; Mycroft once more had to ride to the rescue.

He been sitting at his desk for a couple of hours, lost in thought, unaware of the encroaching darkness, when his secretary came in to water the plants and jumped in surprised to find her boss still there so late on a Friday afternoon. Mycroft looked up from his desk at Monica as if seeing her for the first time and swiftly deduced her, fifty, never married, joined the civil service typing pool from school, elderly mother – no father –  in a nursing home in Croydon, two cats, former girl guide, solid, respectable, unflappable, perfect.

“Monica, can I trust you?”

********

Monica Booth had worked in the foreign office for over thirty years and was not about to miss out on the one real chance of intrigue that had presented itself.  As soon as Mycroft had explained he needed her help she had readily agreed to forgo her choir practice to accompany him to Berkshire. She would go home, feed her cats and change into clothes more suited to the countryside in autumn. Mycroft would do the same (change that is), collect a couple of essential items from his flat and pick her up from her house in Brentwood at 7.30pm. The journey at that time of night should take no more than an hour. Whatever the trap, and Mycroft was one hundred per cent certain it was a trap he would not go into it blindly…or alone.

********

Meanwhile Sherlock had spent the week in nervous anticipation and careful arrangements. At various times of the day and night he had smuggled a number of things he thought would be required down to the gatehouse, matches and paraffin purloined from the gardeners’ shed, two blankets and a sheet from the house linen cupboard and a quarter bottle of gin from his Dame’s private rooms though sadly he had no vermouth or ice, he also had biscuits but had suspected the gatehouse might harbour mice so had kept those in his room. He was having difficulty in controlling his thoughts and his body’s impulses which made him distracted and unresponsive when in class and moody and self-conscious when not. He wasn’t aware if the masters thought he was behaving oddly but then Sherlock was known to be a brilliant and individual character and perhaps his behaviour was not significantly stranger than usual. 

Eventually, though it seemed to have taken weeks, Friday evening arrived. He absented himself from prayers and used the time to take a shower, washing his pale lanky body thoroughly, paying particular attention to his genitals in a way that he found bizarre and arousing at the same time. He had only a vague idea of what might be expected of him, but in view of Mycroft fastidiousness he thought personal cleanliness might be a good thing. Then in the general melee of supper, and lights out for the younger boys he escaped through the kitchen quarters and out into the grounds. It was quite dark, but Sherlock surefootedly followed the familiar path down to the old gatehouse. He made short work of removing the padlock from the side gate (he’d oiled its hinges earlier in the week) so the cottage could be reached from the road, then with practiced efficiency picked the lock on the building.  

By the light of his torch (the electricity was still on in the cottage but Sherlock didn’t want to risk alerting anyone to his presence) he prepared the small sitting room. He lit the paraffin heaters, twitching his nose a little at the smell and covered the old sofa with the blankets and placed the sheet on top to make it more appealing. It was a mild night and the heat from the two paraffin heaters and the enclosed space soon made the room stuffy. He looked at his watch, it was just gone half past eight, time was dawdling in a way that he couldn’t ever remember. As the minutes ticked by in agonising slowness his nerves got the better of him, he felt giddy and sick, uncomfortably hot as if he was going to pass out.  He took a mouthful of the gin, it burned his mouth but eased his stomach a little so he took some more. Next he stood and began to remove his clothes, be ready Mycroft had said, well he couldn’t be more ready than this; he was naked and half hard the one way he could unequivocally prove to his brother that he wanted the same thing. He started as he thought he heard a noise outside but then all nervousness and anxiety fled as a car purred to a standstill just the other side of the gatehouse wall. There were footsteps on the path, and the noise of an animal disturbed. In the distance a church clock struck nine as Sherlock draped himself as alluringly as possible on the ancient sofa as the door to the cottage opened.

Mycroft blinked in the gloom as his eyes adjusted to the dim light created by his own torch meeting the light cast by what appeared to be a camping stove…and another torch. He entered deeper into the room cautiously, conscious that the room was inhabited but unable to see by whom or how many. His hand brushed against the gun concealed inside his jacket but he didn’t reach for it. Not yet. But then the person launched themselves at him and he didn’t get a chance. He was momentarily stunned by the tangle of limbs that surrounded him, the dark curly hair that tickled his nose and impeded his breathing but his assailant was not strangling him but hugging him, and his brother’s voice crooning his name over and over until plush lips met his and for an age, though in reality no more than two or three seconds, he responded.  Then an infinitesimally small noise just outside the window caught his attention, he looked up and in the half-light caught sight of two pairs of eyes and the moonlight reflected in the metal of a camera.  

Mycroft whistled and without waiting for a reply flung Sherlock to the floor with a cursed “get off me” and was out of the room, chasing after the boys, despite his bulk, Mycroft was quick, but Monica was surprisingly quicker, coming round the cottage in the opposite direction she forestalled the boys, reaching out with her boss’s umbrella to trip the first boy so that the second crashed into him and also fell. Mycroft caught up with them quickly, gun drawn and marched the boys forward until they were stood, execution style, against a tree some distance from the cottage away from the line of sight. The boys were palpably terrified, a foul smell permeated the air, one, perhaps both, of the boys had soiled himself. Stammering and shaking they answered Mycroft’s request for their names; he snatched the video camera from the younger Milverton’s hand, ripping the cassette from its casing before smashing the camera underfoot. He drew Monica closer so that she was standing next to him.Then with cold deliberation he placed the barrel of the gun against Howell’s temple and spoke:

“This is Monica, she is my secretary, I want you to look at her and remember her. Monica has been with me, and Sherlock the whole time, Sherlock and I were never alone together. Do you understand that?”

The iciness of Mycroft’s voice was terrifying – the boys nodded, barely able to stand.

“Say it?”

“You were never alone with Sherlock”

“Speak of this to no-one. Remember I know your names, I know where you live and if you breathe a word of this to anyone they will never find your bodies. Go! before I change my mind and shoot you anyway”

The boys fled. Mycroft scooped up the remnants of the film and camera, and passed them to Monica asking her to put them in the boot of his car before joining him in the cottage. He gave her a brief smile and said “Thank you, I knew I could rely on you and I hope I can trust you still”

She replied in the affirmative and went off to the car. Mycroft put the gun back into his shoulder holster; whatever had gone on here tonight he would get to the bottom of it, and no offender would go unpunished. 

He walked back towards the gatehouse pausing by the door as he took a deep breath and braced himself before entering. This time he was ready for whatever lay inside and his reactions would be firmly under control. He felt for the light switch and was gratified when the main light flickered into life. His brother was standing in the middle of the room, blinking against the sudden brightness and shivering uncontrollably. He had partially covered his nakedness with the sheet but as soon as he saw Mycroft he let it slip a little as he moved forward to return to his arms.The sight of his brother’s semi-naked body reminded Mycroft of his initial response to the kiss, he was appalled and angry “Get dressed, go back to your room, you’ve caused enough trouble for one night”

“What is it? Why are you angry with me?” Sherlock was confused, more than ever he needed the comfort of Mycroft’s arms. He moved closer, he wanted to cry. He’d played many possible scenarios through his head in the past week; this was not one of them, brokenly he asked “what happened?”

“Nothing. Get off me” aware that Monica would could return at any time he pushed Sherlock roughly to create more distance between them.

“Mycroft…”

“FOR GOD’S SAKE… put your clothes on”

Sherlock was crying now, tears and snot running down his face as he tried to grab at his brother’s coat.

Just then his secretary knocked brusquely on the door and entered the cottage. “Ah, Monica good, please help me get this boy dressed”. Together they manhandled Sherlock into his clothes. He fought them briefly before slumping like a dead weight which made the job harder still. Eventually though they achieved passable success. Mycroft turned off the heaters and gave Sherlock his handkerchief “Go now, wipe your face, go back to school. I’ll deal with everything in the morning” Sherlock made a last ditch attempt to place his arms around Mycroft’s neck but was firmly rebuffed. “Don’t touch me; don’t ever try to touch me again” 

Sherlock beat his fists against his brother’s chest.

“I hate you, I hate you, and I will never forgive you”

“I know” Mycroft replied sadly and with that turned on his heels and left.

********

Four hours later Sherlock was admitted to hospital having taken an overdose.

Fourteen hours later Milverton and Howell were expelled from the school.

Forty hours later Mycroft Holmes was on a plane to Washington.

 


	3. At Thirty-Six

So remember those who win the game

Lose the love they sought to gain

 

Lying on his side, one arm outstretched, his left leg bent slightly at the knee Mycroft became gradually aware that he was in the recovery position.

“What…?”

“Hush, lie still, don’t try to get up, you fainted, that’s all but you were out quite a long time”

_Fainted…he Mycroft Holmes, fainted?_

“I…”

He became conscious of his loosened tie, the shirt collar undone, a sharp pain somewhere from the direction of his left arm where his elbow had hit the ground with the full force of his weight behind it. 

“I need to sit up” He moved too quickly and the room swam, he swayed to the right and then backwards, black spots before his eyes, bile at the back of his throat, he groaned and made as if to faint again. The hands that rushed to help him were cool but far from ghostly, the arms that manoeuvred him into a sitting position were slender but with real physical strength behind them. This was no apparition but still he said.

“I saw a ghost”

“No ghost” the voice came from behind him, the deep baritone, so strange, so achingly familiar.  His eyes rolled to the back his head, again the hands held him; gently they pushed his head between his knees.

“Don’t faint on me again brother mine, it is so out of character, and I need you to be yourself now, we have a lot of catching up to do”

********

The events of the last hour crowded his brain. He remembered being sat at the desk of his private office in Whitehall and the growing storm in his subconscious that had been building all day. He hadn’t been able to concentrate during his meeting with the Foreign Secretary,  had been relieved when it had finished at six thirty, although that was too early to go home and he couldn’t muster the energy to start anything new. It was lunchtime, in Washington; he contemplated making a few telephone calls but the enthusiasm was absent. He fretted, work was everything, what was he without the work? 

His assistant had left the scotch and soda water out for him on a convenient side table and on his return to the office he’d mixed himself a drink but it remained untouched in the glass on the desk in front of him. Even without raising the glass to his lips the smell of the alcohol assaulted his senses and nauseated him as everything seem to do these days.

Suddenly and without following the thought processes Mycroft reached a decision, and his whole body jolted as he spun into action. Feeling for the hidden button that released the secret drawer in his desk he opened it and removed the two sets of keys it held. Identical, Sherlock’s had been return to Mycroft with the other personal effects found on his body at death. John had given his set to Mycroft two months ago, on his return from honeymoon, he was married, and living with in his new home with Mary.  Mycroft turned the keys over, one set in each of his hands, John had survived, moved on; it was Mycroft’s turn now. And he would begin by dealing with the flat in Baker Street.

His car was waiting, anticipating his every need was the predominant requirement in his staff. The journey should take eleven minutes though he deduced in current traffic it would take nearer seventeen. Mrs Hudson was away, he still made it his business to be informed of the whereabouts of all his late brother’s associates, a quick check of the CCTV at Victoria had confirmed her boarding the 11.36 to Brighton that morning (on time, well I never!); Speedy’s had closed 2 hours ago. Even the extremely unlikely event of John deciding to view his old lodgings from the outside was pre-empted by the knowledge that he was on night duty.

John had never returned to Baker Street after Sherlock’s death, too painful. He had severed all connection with Mycroft, regarding him, if not as the author, certainly the contributing editor, of Sherlock’s downfall. Mycroft overcome with remorse had anonymously secured John a job in an NHS practice and a flat the other side of Londoncalling in a debt owed by an old school friend. Call it sentimentality, call it what you will, Mycroft could never quite bring himself to surrender Sherlock’s tenancy, continuing to forward the rent to Mrs Hudson every month with greater regularity than Sherlock had managed when he lived there. Gradually the flat had lost its sense of Sherlock’s presence, the fridge where various body parts, and the remains of last night’s takeaway had sat cheek by jowl was empty and switched off. The furniture cleaned and protected by dust sheets, only Sherlock’s clothes, still hanging in the wardrobe, gave any indication of the man who had once inhabited them, this space.

He had allowed John’s to keep his set of keys for sentimental reasons, should the man decide a final visit would help give him closure but it was Mycroft who had arranged for the removal of the doctor’s things, Mycroft who had arranged for the monthly check on the property, or rather had instructed Anthea to ensure this happened. Once every four or five weeks a private cleaning company would visit, clean the windows and dust the furniture, look for moths in the wardrobe and mice in the skirting boards, check the gas and water pipes and generally relieve Mrs Hudson of the stress of a large unoccupied tenancy. But, Mycroft acknowledged, they were the curators of a memoral; and it was time for the museum of Sherlock Holmes to be dismantled.

The car pulled to a halt in Baker Street, Mycroft  glanced at his pocket watch before speaking to his driver “This shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, go and get something to eat, I’ll phone you fifteen minutes before I am ready to depart” 

The driver courteously waited for his employer to let himself in through the solid black door of 221b before driving off.

Mycroft climbed the seventeen steps to flat b with a heavy tread, he felt old. His back ached near the base of his spine and his left knee clicked miserably. He hesitated in the little lobby at the top of the stairs before bracing himself to open the door and entering the flat proper. On going in he paused and looked around the sitting room, he sniffed suspiciously, something was not quite right, something had changed since he’d last visited the flat. The cleaners hadn’t been in since then yet there seemed a difference in the presentation of the room, the dust motes in the air, a slight rearrangement in the sheet covering the armchair, a fall of soot in the fireplace, a strange half remembered scent.

Mycroft shuddered: “ _someone is walking over my grave”_

Nonsense, he shook himself, he was not about to become imaginative in his old age. _A bird,_ thought Mycroft, _a bird must have come down the chimney_. He looked in the fireplace there was some soot, _and was that ash?_ It looked recent.   _A coffee, to steady his nerves_ – it would be instant of course, but he thought he remembered some in the cupboard from the cleaners - yes there it was, no milk or sugar but the coffee was blessedly still in date. A good shot of caffeine would sort him out. He placed the coffee on the counter and took a mug from the cupboard rinsing it under the tap remembering poignantly when greater peril lurked in Baker Street mugs than dust or cobwebs. As he reached out to lift the kettle to the sink his hand touched its side, the kettle was warm.

“You’ve lost weight” 

Mycroft turned towards the voice, the room spun and the floor rose up to greet him.

********

“Don’t faint on me again brother dear, it is so out of character, and I need you to be yourself now, we have a lot of catching up to do”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking, he knew that he looked vaguely ridiculous sat on the floor of the Baker Street kitchen in his three piece suit, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

Sherlock bent towards him again, gently sliding his arms beneath his brother’s “do you think you can manage to walk to the sofa? You’d be more comfortable”

Mycroft allowed himself to be lifted and escorted to the couch. Sherlock swiftly divested the old brown sofa of its dust sheet and helped Mycroft to lie down on it. Mycroft protested but Sherlock batted these away with an imperious sweep of his hand. “For goodness sake, don’t worry about your shoes, it has seen worse. Let me finish making the coffee. Lie still. Recover”

Sherlock briefly busied himself in the kitchen before returning with two mugs of black coffee. “Sorry I imagine it will be pretty unpleasant, but there is this” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small hip flask “it’s not the stuff you’re used to but I wouldn’t waste that on coffee anyway”

Sherlock poured two generous measures of brandy into the coffee, pulled up a chair opposite his brother on the couch and sat down.

“Ok you’ve got questions”

“How…Why…?”

“How? With help from Molly, and my homeless network chipped in as well. Why? Three lives were on the line, Lestrade, John, Mrs H. I could tell you the mechanics of it but you’d miss the satisfaction of working it out for your self. But I took a leaf out of The Woman’s book with the body swap and the DNA” 

Mycroft sat up and reached out to absently run a finger down the side of his brother’s face from the cheekbone to the chin before returning the hand to his lap. The brothers sat for some time in uneasy silence, contemplating the enormity of the situation and sipping their barely drinkable coffee.

“Surely you suspected?”

“No, then yes, then no again” 

When his brother didn’t reply he went on.

“Initially I didn’t think you would have had time, even you couldn’t have organised everything not without months of preparation. I wanted to believe it was possible, the substitute body and dental records, if anyone could have done it it was you but the odds were against you, even if you had known when you went to Barts that day what Moriarty would require of you. I identified the body and was satisfied, but it was a mess and I…well I frankly I was not myself. Then when Moriarty’s known associates and other significant payers in the criminal world disappeared or started turning up dead or worse I did wonder, it was systematic without being recognisable, again only one man could be behind it and that man was dead. I thought once or twice about ordering an exhumation, double checking the DNA but I feared too greatly that it would prove the body was you and I had got used to the hope”

“So when did you conclude that I really was dead?”

“When John married, I thought if you were alive you would know about it and if you knew you would come back” Mycroft gave a thin bitter smile “Sentiment, Sherlock, I thought you loved him, I thought you wanted him for yourself”

A silence sat heavily between them, Mycroft tight lipped, Sherlock with his eyes closed and his hands as if in prayer, so wonderfully familiar, Mycroft thought his heart would stop, he reached out and placed his own hands over his brother’s to reassure himself again that they were warm and quick. The touch brought Sherlock back; he spoke, hesitantly but with conviction.  

“In as much as I have loved anyone in my adult life I loved John. I love him still, but I do not have, nor have I ever had a romantic attachment to him. I am glad he is married, he deserves nothing less than to love and be loved in return”

“I thought…”

“You thought wrong, Mycroft. You thought what you wanted to think because it made things easier for you, if I found happiness in the arms of another man then it justified my years in the wilderness and it absolved you from the responsibility for putting me there. You no longer had to shoulder the blame for what happened, when you played fast and loose with my affections and drew me in only to reject me in the cruellest way possible”

“Sherlock there is something you must know, I never told you before, it never seemed the right time, maybe I was wrong not to but I never wrote those letters”

“What!”

“I never wrote those letters, they were written by a man called Milverton, Charles Augustus Milverton, we were at school together, he was jealous of me and looked for a way to destroy me. He found it in you”

“I don’t believe you”

“You didn’t know him Sherlock, but you shared a dorm with his younger brother, apparently you whispered my name in your sleep, Jeremy Milverton told his brother. Milverton recognised it and decided to use it to his advantage. He is a blackmailer and fraudster and he started his career, or at least tried to with us.

“You never knew, you never even guessed how close we came to catastrophe – Sherlock we were being watched, the boys, Milverton and Howell were trying to film us, it would have destroyed you, it would have ruined me. You were seventeen Sherlock, my seventeen year old brother, forget the consanguinity,  nineteen years ago the age of consent had only just been reduced to eighteen, we would have broken the law in more ways than one. Yes, I was selfish, I put my own desire to survive first but could you, at seventeen, have stood by and watched your brother, whom you claimed to love, be blackmailed for the rest of his life as the result of your youthful indiscretion? Could you have lived with the knowledge you had been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever the life of your beloved brother? 

“You were a lonely naïve boy, you became a lonely naïve man; all I have ever tried to do since I was seven and I held you for the first time is protect you, from Mummy’s indifference and Nanny’s intolerance to the imbeciles at nursery who pulled your hair and the idiots at the Met who called you Freak. I was already cut off from all I held dear so what did exile matter? I thought if I put some distance between us you’d get over whatever adolescent infatuation this was, I took the posting to Washington, three years, Sherlock, three years of utter misery and in the end it amounted to nothing. I couldn’t protect you, the one thing that would damage you most was add my name to the list of people who rejected you and I’d already done that.”

“So after three years I came back from Washington to what? My beloved little brother, a university drop out, wasting his beautiful brain on mindless antics and destroying his beautiful body through mind altering drugs, and I couldn’t reach you, couldn’t help you however desperately I tried you wouldn’t let me in. John once accused me of breaking your Action Man, but it worse than that; I’d broken your heart”

Mycroft finished speaking. A tap dripped in harmony with steady hum of the traffic down below in Baker Street, inside the heavy silence cloaked them like a blanket.

Finally Sherlock spoke “when you came back from America you’d changed, you were always beautiful to me, but now you were lean and toned , your hair, your clothes, your polish I looked at you and deduced your American lover, slightly older, an academic with a health and exercise kick, I saw the trips to the metropolitan opera, the vacations on Long Island, I saw the cabin in Montana and the skiing in Aspen, and I hated him, or her, the gender was immaterial, and I hated you, I hated you for surviving when I couldn’t”

Mycroft sighed sadly “There was no lover, Sherlock, male or female, except in your imagination, and there was no diet. There was exercise, I’ll grant you, frantic exercise the only way to beat my revolting body into exhausted sleep. Losing weight is remarkably easy when your heart is broken, Sherlock, you know that. Half way through a meal the image of you the last time I saw you, unconscious in hospital after you’d tried to end your life would form unbidden in my mind, and my stomach would tighten and my throat close so no food could pass it, I soon got a reputation for constant dieting or reducing as our American cousins so charmingly call it, but no diet was ever necessary. When you are sick to your soul no diet is ever necessary”

“No lover?”

Mycroft hesitated “I’m no virgin Sherlock, but Moriarty was correct when he called me the Iceman, there’s no fire in my blood, the expending of passion has always been no more than a medical necessity, like root canal work, a  mechanical devise to maintain my equilibrium, a business transaction – I’ve never had a sexual encounter I haven’t paid for. I wished I could be like you and do without it all together but I couldn’t; though” here Mycroft paused “there’s been nothing for over two years, nothing since you died”

“I asked you once if you wondered if there was something wrong with us. Moriarty was right about me too”

“I gathered”

“When I jumped, after I’d said goodbye to John, I thought ‘if this goes wrong now I’ll die a virgin’. I had a modicum of regret, but it didn’t go wrong and here I am, still intact in every sense of the word”

“And there’s never been anyone?”

“You’re asking the wrong question”

“I don’t know what you mean”

“Yes you do”

Mycroft took a swig of his coffee, it was cold and vile, how apt. 

“And there’s never been anyone since me?”

“Funnily enough no. I tried but not very hard. Didn’t you ever ask yourself why the few attachments I made, apart from Mrs H, were to terminally unavailable men, a few years older than me? Like John or Lestrade. I was still looking for you”

“Sherlock…”

“I know, this is where you tell me…”

Mycroft cut him short. “I was going to say I have missed you”

“Two years is a long time”

“I have missed you for nineteen years”

“I have replayed that night in my mind, the incident in the gatehouse as I like to call it,more times than you can possibly imagine. There always seemed something I’d missed, I understand now that it was a trap but in fact you didn’t reject me until you heard the noise outside. When I touched you, your eyes dilated, your breathing became shallow; I didn’t know what it meant then Mycroft, but I remember now, you kissed me like you meant it” 

“That night, after the school phoned me to say you’d been taken to hospital, I went to your room and found the letters, you’d hidden them well, but not well enough. I read them, I didn’t write them but I could have”

“So you did want me that way”

“Yes” Mycroft inhaled deeply, held his breath as he mentally tossed a coin, watching it spin round and round in the air before falling to the ground. Heads he lost! “I still do”

Sherlock stood up and moved towards the fireplace where an old, serviceable rucksack leant against what he always thought of as ‘John’s chair’. He returned and wordlessly sat down beside his brother and passed him a small red object marked with a white cross.

Mycroft opened it, looked at Sherlock’s photograph and read ‘Frederick Altamont, date of birth, 16th July 1973, place of birth, Lugarno, Switzerland’.

“He was a pirate”

“Though Walter Scott didn’t make him Swiss” 

Sherlock laughed “well done for getting the reference. I had a Swiss bank account, it figured”

Sherlock cupped his brother’s face in hands and turned it slightly so they could look each other in the eyes. They were so close their foreheads almost touched.

“If you want me to I’ll stay dead. Find a little cottage in the middle of nowhere and keep bees and write for scientific journals. I have a full blown alternative persona that has kept me safe for the last two years; do you not think it could keep both of us safe? And you could come and visit me. Weekends, holidays maybe I could spend a couple of days in a month in London with you. We needn’t be apart that much”

“People would suspect”

“Suspect what? People see but they do not observe. We’re not that much alike. Gradually the number of people who even remember me, who even knew you had a brother would fade”

“And you would do this? Give up all hopes of returning to you old life? Die for me?”

“Mycroft, I died the night I lost you, and I have been dead ever since, only now I have the certificate to prove it”

“I could never get used to calling you Fred”

“You wouldn’t have to, ‘my love’ would do”

Mycroft pulled his brother to him and encircled him in his embrace, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s hair and murmuring “my love, my love” over and over. Then just as suddenly he pulled away.

“I can’t let you do this, Sherlock, you are my brother and I love you, in every sense of the word, but you are not destined to be a footnote in history”

Sherlock sighed and snuggled back into his brother’s arms. “I know but it was a good idea while it lasted”

“You said that to me when you were seven and blew up the rabbits’ hutch trying to harvest methane gas”

“The rabbits weren’t in there”

“I know, but that still didn’t make it a good idea, just another one of your messes for me to sort out. The story of my life”

“Can you sort this one out My?”

“I’m sure something could be managed, under the right circumstances, if we both want it badly enough, but it won’t be easy”

They were silent again contemplating the enormity of the decision.

“We don’t have to make up our minds just yet, let’s sleep on it and see what the morning brings”

“Sleep on it?”

“Mycroft, no-one knows you are here apart from your driver and about half the British secret service, what’s to stop you sleeping here alone? I’m not here, I’m dead remember? Whatever we decided tomorrow, let’s have tonight”

“I…don’t know”

“You always came to my rescue, sorted out my problems, whether I wanted you to or not. Will you leave this challenge unmet?”

Sherlock leaned into Mycroft’s embrace, their lips touched and they kissed, deeply, passionately for the first time, and then relaxed in each other’s arms.

********

At some point Sherlock would light a fire.

At some point Mycroft would phone his driver and ask him to drop off a pint of milk before finishing for the evening.

At some point Sherlock would make up his bed.

At some point Mycroft would join him in it.

But until then they sat on the sofa in companionable silence as they surveyed their future together. 


End file.
